


I Wish We Had More Time

by subtextismygod



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2019-10-16 04:33:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17542754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtextismygod/pseuds/subtextismygod
Summary: Loras is a squire for a young Baratheon lord who seems to be thinking about him.Sansa wants to marry the prince, but she stops to meet a particular rose.Dany is in Dorne, and she needs allies. Yara Greyjoy needs a wife.Begins as a sort of prequel to the Game of Thrones/ASoIaF, becomes more of an AU later on. Switches between Loras, Sansa, and Dany POV.





	1. Loras

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT NOTES:
> 
> -Divergence from canon in Dany’s storyline, where she leaves Pentos and instead of going to the Dothraki, she goes to Dorne. 
> 
> -Age differences: Sansa is 14, Arya is 13, Dany is 16. 
> 
> -There probably won’t be any smut, unless people want it. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

Leaving Highgarden opened a hole in Loras’ heart. He had rarely left his ancestral home since Robert’s Rebellion had ended fourteen years ago. And he had never left the Reach. But, here he was, trotting along on his white mare, going east to Storm’s End and Renly Baratheon. 

His grandmother had arranged it when she solidified the marriage between Margaery and Lord Renly, to have Loras squire for the young lord of twenty. It made Loras sad to leave Olenna behind, with only him, Margaery, and thirty-some guards trotting around them. Riding to Storm’s End to squire for the young stag was a terrifying prospect for Loras. 

He was not scared easily. Loras had learned when he was in his second winter that he was not afraid of death. What he was afraid of was not knowing. Not knowing who in this new city, the whole new kingdom of the Stormlands. He had never met Lord Renly, this young stag. Perhaps he would be kind to Loras. That was all he could hope.

Margaery drew her horse up next to Loras, her pale red horse shimmering in the midday sun. She was a year his elder, but she looked half his twin. Her hair was a dark gold, thick and wavy. They had the same pink and full lips, the same brown eyes, and the same chin. The only difference was where his sister had wavy hair, Loras’ had a mess of lazy curls tumbling down and brushing his chin. 

“You’re scared,” she remarked as she saw the tension on her brother’s face. She knew his face, and every change it made when he felt fear or joy or anger or sadness. 

“We are little flowers,” Loras said, the gold rose of his house flying proudly ahead as the bannerman flew the sigil. “And he is a stag. I am afraid.” 

“‘The prettiest roses have the sharpest thorns.’ Don’t forget what Grandmother taught us,” Margaery reminded. His sister was wise beyond her years, Loras realized. He constantly leaned on his older sister to comfort him and teach him. The women of Highgarden were notoriously stronger than its men. Loras was the exception, being extremely proficient with sword and lance. 

“At least we’re still together.” Loras could not imagine leaving his sister, or her leaving him. They were two parts a whole, almost as close as the queen and her twin brother. Loras wondered if he would ever get to meet the queen and king, if Lord Renly would ever go to King’s Landing to see his brother. It was widely known that the. Baratheon brothers had a strained relationship at best. Stannis was off at Dragonstone doing who knows what, with some Red Priestess from Asshai and a man called the Onion Knight. He was no real knight.

“Yes, at least we’re together,” Margaery echoed. She nudged her horse a little closer to Loras. His mare did not shy or nicker at all. His sister was odd in the way that she sometimes would prefer to ride on horseback than in a carriage. She would ride among her bannermen instead of closing herself off from them. Margaery had earned their love and respect through that. 

“What do you think Lord Renly will be like?” He asked his sister. He was more than interested to meet the stag, albeit terrified. He tried to veil his fear with conversation, hoping to distract himself from the imminent meeting with the Lord of the Stormlands. 

“I hear that he has the love of the common people and noblemen alike,” she replied. 

“Much like you,” Loras told her with a smile. Margaery was beloved by all in the Reach. “You will make a good couple. Maybe a queen someday.” 

“Many people would have to die for Lord Renly and I to sit on the Iron Throne, dear brother,” she pointed out. “Robert, Joffrey, Tommen, Stannis. Renly is fifth in line for the throne, don’t forget. And speaking ill of him is treason. Plotting to kill him, that is death.” 

“I’m not plotting to kill the king!” Loras exclaimed indignantly, but realized too late that his sister was jesting. Another perk of men who loved his sister, they took nothing they said to heart. They were loyal, almost to a fault. “Didn’t Alayne call him ‘the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms?’” Alayne was one of Margaery’s old handmaidens, a bastard child of Lord Baelish from the Fingers. 

“You forgot the best part: ‘the most handsome man, other than you, milord,’” Margaery laughed. He had not forgotten Alayne’s endless flirtation towards him, although he had made it clear he was not at liberty to marry out of love. As the heir to Highgarden and the Reach, it was important for him to marry to solidify a political bond. “She was so devastated when she heard you were leaving.” 

“I pity the girl,” Loras said noncommittally. He never loved the girl. He had been careful to not love any girl since his grandmother had suggested his arrangement to Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Loras had found that staying indifferent to girls was easier than he assumed it would, but he did not think much of it. 

“I do hope that Lord Renly is handsome as Alayne said.” Margaery would never marry for love, but keep any feelings she had to herself. She would marry whoever she had to to ensure the future of herself and her house. “And that he is kind as people say.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” At that moment, a rider pulled his horse up next to Loras and his sister. 

“My lord, my lady,” he bowed his helmeted head to both of them. Denys Redwyne, a man of six-and-thirty, and sworn bannerman to House Tyrell. “We have passed into the Stormlands. Storm’s End is three days from Blackhaven. Lord Dondarrion has granted us stay in his keep for the night as we continue our journey.”

“Thank you, Denys,” Margaery replied, her voice smooth and sweet as she smiled at the aging man. “Is that Blackhaven?” She pointed at a black smudge on the horizon to the northeast. 

“Yes, my lady. We will reach it before nightfall.” 

As Denys had promised, they arrived at Blackhaven just as the sun was beginning to touch the horizon, the Dondarrion banner flying high over the battlements. An escort of six Dondarrion guards merged with Loras’ and Margaery’s companions as they approached the gates. 

Lord Beric Dondarrion greeted them at the gate, mounted upon a proud black stallion adorned with the black, white, and purple colors of House Dondarrion. “Lord Loras, Lady Margaery. We welcome you to Blackhaven.” 

“We thank you for your hospitality. Pray, do you have wine and bread for my sister and I? We are famished from the long road,” Loras replied as Margaery had instructed, asking for food and drink was the unspoken pact to safety under another lord’s roof. 

“I will have it fetched immediately. Please, step down from your horses and follow. I will show you to your rooms, where you can change.” Lord Beric beckoned them after him. They dismounted and followed the lord inside his keep. 

The halls were dimly lit with flickering torches, and the banners of House Dondarrion fluttered against the walls. It was not a pretty castle, but a functional one. It made Loras miss Highgarden even more than he already did. 

A young servant girl brought them wine and bread as bid, and they each took a sip and bite, sealing the deal of hospitality. “I can have your food brought to your rooms our you can join me tonight for supper,” Beric offered. 

“We would be honored to feast with you,” Margaery smiled graciously. “My dear brother and I are weary, we must change into more suitable clothes for your halls, my lord.” 

“Then do not let me keep you. Ser Manfred will escort you safely to your rooms.” A tall knight with shimmering iron and a black cloak stepped forward and bowed to Loras and Margaery. Loras liked the look of this Ser Manfred, he seemed an honorable man who had skill with the sword. 

“Thank you, Lord Beric,” Loras bowed his head. Beric mirrored the movement and left them at the base of the stairs.

As Margaery and Loras changed into formal attire, it struck Loras how strained their encounter with Beric was. As one of the lords of the Stormlands, he was entitled to certain perks with the reigning lord, in this case, Lord Renly. 

Perhaps his tense manner was because he felt cheated from his entitlement. 

Loras began to feel much more thankful that he had drank the wine and ate the bread.


	2. Sansa

The hands braiding her hair were skilled and swift, the red locks flashing in and out of her view as her mother deftly tied her hair in a flower of braids. Sansa liked flowers and she loved her red hair. It reminded her of the Godswood, and the Heartree, where she felt safe under the eyes of the old gods. The light of the Seven did not reach the North, and instead they were governed by the faces on the Weirwoods.

Arya was off gods know where, probably playing with her stupid little swords. Robb, Jon and Bran were out with her father, executing a traitor from Bear Island. “Mother?” Sansa asked. “Why does Father have to kill every man he sentences?” 

Catelyn stroked her daughter’s hair. “He does not kill them, sweet Sansa. He executes them for breaking his laws. And he must be the one who does it because that is how it’s done in the North.” A shadow flashed over her mother’s eyes when she said it. She wasn’t from the North, she was a Southerner. Her bright red hair and blue eyes were testament to her Tully heritage.

“Do you miss Riverrun?” Sansa had never gone to her mother’s ancestral home, but she wanted to dearly. 

“Every day. Winterfell is my home now, and I have learned to love it, just as I love your father.” Her mother stood and set the brush on Sansa’s chest-of-drawers. 

“Do you love Jon?” It was no secret that the Bastard Wolf was fathered by Ned Stark, but not mothered by Catelyn. Some common whore in some small tavern too close to some battlefield. 

“Go find Septa Mordane,” Catelyn only said, helping her lovely daughter up. Sansa was a pretty girl, her blue eyes and red hair the same as her mother’s, her cheeks pink and soft. 

Her mother walked off and Sansa stood. She looked beautiful with the braids. Perfect. She was so much better than Arya, or Arya Horseface as Jeyne called her. Arya was dumb and ugly, and Sansa was pretty and good.

Septa Mordane was going to help Sansa finish sewing a dress. It was a light blue masterpiece, much prettier than Arya’s lopsided and crooked stitches. Sansa was going to wear it when the King and Queen came to Winterfell to ask her to marry Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, heir to the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, and Sansa’s dream.

The old and withered Septa was adorned in her grey fabrics and grey head covering. She was fond of Sansa, because she was what a lady should be like. Kind, pretty, and smart. “Lady Sansa,” the Septa bowed her head briefly. 

“Septa,” Sansa replied, smiling sweetly. 

“Where’s your sister, Sansa? She missed her needlepoint class this morning.” Stupid Arya was probably playing with wooden swords, not paying attention to things a proper lady should. 

“She’s probably doing all those silly things like pretending she’s a knight.” Sansa said, rolling her eyes. 

“Be kind to your sister. Arya’s just a little misguided, that’s all. She spends too much time with the bastard Snow.” Although Sansa disliked her sister immensely, she still loved Jon in a way. 

“It’s not Jon’s fault. It’s Arya’s,” she informed Mordane. “And don’t call him a bastard.”

“It is not wrong to call him what he is, Lady Sansa,” the Septa told her. She was right, Sansa thought. Jon was a bastard. “Now, let us see your dress.” 

Glad that the conversation had turned back to her, Sansa held up the pale blue dress. Septa Mordane stalked around the dress like a wolf, examining the stitching and the bows. “This is very beautiful, my lady,” she said. 

“Thank you, Septa,” Sansa grinned. Of course it was pretty, she had made it herself. “When will I go to King’s Landing to marry Prince Joffrey?” The Septa shuffled her feet.

“Lady Sansa, you are not promised to the prince,” she said softly. “You might not even marry him.” Sansa’s heart shattered. 

“But, Father said that King Robert would want this!” Sansa cried. She felt her entire future— with Joffrey, with the queen as her mother in-law— slipping right through her fingers. Angrily, she threw down her dress, so ugly now that she saw it, and ran sobbing to her room. Sansa collapsed onto her bed, chest heaving. She had imagined her prince for years, with his pretty golden hair and handsome face, his gallant manner and his kind words. 

She ripped at her hair. Joffrey, Joffrey, Joffrey. He had governed her lifestyle for as long as she could remember. She had practiced needlepoint to impress the queen on her talents. But Joffrey was not hers.

A knock sounded on her door. “Sansa?” Stupid Arya. 

“Go away, Arya!” She yelled. Arya knocked again.

“Let me in, Sansa. Please?” Her voice seemed so nice. 

“I said go away!” 

“I— Jon’s back with Robb and Bran and Father. You’ll want to see this for yourself, but they found baby dire wolves. There’s six of them. One for each of us, and Jon.” With every word, Sansa grew more and more curious of what Arya was saying. Of course she was lying, Arya lied all the time, and dire wolves lived north of the Wall. But, it was a very convincing story. 

“You’re lying. You’re a liar,” Sansa yelled at her sister.

“Sansa, I promise, I’m not lying.” She said it with such sincerity that Sansa began to feel a seed of doubt. “Come see.”  She had a gut feeling that her sister was not lying this time. She slid off her bed and ran a brush through her hair. Her eyes were still red from crying about her Joffrey, but she felt some hint of hope that things could change.

The dire wolf was the sigil of House Stark. Maybe this was a sign that she had to think about herself before her prince. Sansa silently thanked both the Seven and the old gods for the message, and she opened her door. Arya did not splash her with water or humiliate her in front of everyone. She was alone, in a dress, with her red hair in a bun atop her head. She almost looked like a lady.

“Are you alright?” Arya asked. By the gods, she looked concerned. 

“I’m fine. Now, show me these wolves.” Arya nodded and dashed off, then slowed her pace to account for Sansa’s dislike of running. For a moment, Sansa felt some semblance of love for her sister. 

The three trueborn Stark boys and Jon were clustered around each other, Ned and Catelyn hovering behind them. “Jon, Robb! Sansa’s here!” Arya called to her brothers. Robb turned around, holding two wolf pups. Theon Greyjoy was next to him, holding two more. A white pup was lying at Jon’s feet, and he was holding one more. 

Sansa felt her jaw drop in awe. She never thought she would ever see a real-live dire wolf, let alone hold one. The pup was a small girl, pale with a light brown back and belly. Her eyes were a striking blue. She yawned tiredly and Sansa felt her heart melt. “You will feed them, train them, and take care of them. If they die, you will bury them,” her father said. Ned looked serious, but his eyes held a sort of laughter to them. “She needs a name,” he said, quieter, to Sansa. 

“Lady,” Sansa decided. Her little wolf was as much a lady as she. This time, Ned smiled broadly. Arya was kneeling next to Jon’s runt, her wolf tugging at her grip. Robb’s and Bran’s were playing, Rickon’s watching under his six-year-old owner’s legs. 

Catelyn watched her children with their wolves, a haunted look in her eyes. Her hand was clutching a piece of paper and her forehead was crinkled. If it were any other time, Sansa would be concerned for her mother, but Lady was licking her hand. All worries flitted from her mind as she stroked Lady, and even Joffrey seemed a distant memory. 


	3. Daenerys

There was blue all around her. The sky was a pale blue, the ocean was a deep sapphire, and the Pentosi captain had blue hair and black eyes. She was enraptured by the shimmering sea, the way the fiery sunsets reflected off the choppy waves. Her brother was holed up in the cabins, probably spilling his guts into a bucket. Viserys had never been good with sea travel.

Daenerys, on the other hand, loved the water. It was like the calming water to her fire. She had always thought that her soulmate would be the calm and calculating ocean, the polar opposite to her reckless and passionate fire. At least, that’s what she dreamt she would be like, if she ever sat on the Iron Throne. Viserys made it perfectly clear that she would marry Trystane Martell of Dorne, and she would be happy about it.

But Dany could not shake the sadness that accompanied the thought of this Trystane Martell. “You are a Targaryen,” she said to herself, startling a Braavosi ship’s hand next to her. 

“What you say?” He said in the common tongue, his accent thick. 

“Nothing,” Dany replied in High Valyrian. He blinked in surprise when she spoke his home tongue. “Forget I said anything.” The Braavosi nodded and went back to scrubbing the deck.

_ Blood of the dragon _ , Viserys always said. He was the dragon, he would tell her, and she did not want to wake the dragon. “Dragon,” the Braavosi said, again in the common tongue. Dany whirled around and, sure enough, Viserys was stumbling across the deck, face green. “Dany!” He shouted. She clenched her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. 

“Yes, brother?” She replied, gripping the pink folds of her dress in partial anger, partial terror.

“We are a half a day’s sail from Sunspear. Have your bitches clean you up and dress you nice and pretty for the Dornish,” he commanded. He never asked for anything, not even once. She wished he would, if only rarely. Her hesitation caused Viserys to redden in fury. “You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?” He said quickly, almost crazed. 

“No, brother,” she bowed her head meekly. He struck her nonetheless, a backhanded blow across her face. Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to tell her  _ exactly  _ what he wanted. Do as he said, or be hurt more. She hated him for it. 

Her ‘bitches’ as Viserys called them were three Dothraki slaves bought by Magister Illyrio as a parting gift from Pentos. Irri, Jhiqui, and Doreah, all stolen and sold from the Dothraki horse-lords. Viserys followed her to her bathing chamber, where he ripped off her pale dress and threw it down onto the floor. “Look at yourself,” he ordered. She looked down, seeing, but not noticing.  _ You are a dragon,  _ she told herself.  _ Dragon. Dragon. Dragon.  _ “This is what you are. A whore. I will sell you to every lord in the Seven Kingdoms if it gets me my throne.” The three Dothraki girls shuffled in. “You, come with me,” Viserys grabbed Doreah’s wrist and lead her out. 

“What is he doing with her?” Dany asked Irri and Jhiqui as they helped her into the bathing tub. 

“Doreah used to be a bed-slave,” Irri said in Dothraki, then Valyrian. “Your brother will use her as she was trained. It is known.”

“It is known,” Jhiqui echoed. Suddenly, Dany felt very sick. Her brother was as wicked as he was cruel, she realized. As Irri and Jhiqui scrubbed her down, she found her mind wandering to Dorne, and what it would be like. What new hell would she have to endure for her brother? 

The golden beaches of Dorne stretched for miles, she had heard. The sand was the finest in the world, and once you went inland, the warm shores transformed into a lush landscape. The stories seemed too good to be true, but Dany thought they lived up to her expectations and more. 

From the bow of the ship, she could see the entire country stretched out in front of her, glistening in the afternoon sun. The Pentosi ship docked in front of Sunspear, where Viserys and Dany were met by an entourage of Dornish warriors, and a tall woman in orange silks. Her hair was black as night, and her skin was a smooth brown. “Lord Viserys, Lady Daenerys, we welcome you to Dorne,” she said, her voice thick with accent. “I am Ellaria Sand.”

Viserys spat in disgust. “They send a bastard to greet us? What kind of barbarity is this?” He scoffed. 

“Bastards are not looked down upon in Dorne like we are in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Prince Oberyn and Prince Doran are waiting for you in the Water Gardens. The warriors fell into step beside them as they followed the bastard woman to the palace. The Water Gardens were the most beautiful thing Dany had ever seen. Streams and waterfalls seemed to spring from the ground, as green ferns spilled over into the pathways and shady palms mottled the sun. 

Oberyn and Doran Martell were nothing alike. The eldest son, Doran, was wrinkled with age and wore a golden robe with rippling silks underneath. He was seated in a wheelchair and he was hunched with age, even though he could not have been more than thirty-and-seven. His younger brother, Oberyn, was lean and lithe, standing strong with a similar fashion to Dorans. He seemed to be only thirty-and-five, but he held himself like a true warrior. Off to the side were three masked women each with a different weapon on hand. 

“My lord,” Ellaria Sand said to Prince Doran. “I present to you: Viserys Targaryen and Daenerys Targaryen, rightful rulers to the Seven Kingdoms.” Dany noticed that she said  _ rulers _ , as if Dany and her brother were to rule together. As if she would marry him instead of Trystane Martell. 

“Thank you, Lady Ellaria, you may leave,” Doran motioned her to do so. She did no such thing. Dany felt her heart quicken, ready for a fight. Yet, Doran heaved a sigh. “Fine. Stay if you wish.” A clatter sounded as the three warrior-women sheathed their weapons.  

“Armies,” Viserys snapped impatiently. “I came for my rightful armies!” Dany winced at his tone. 

“Viserys,” she whispered to him warningly.

“Quiet!” He shrieked at her. Ellaria’s eyes narrowed as Dany cowered from her brother. 

“You will get your armies, my lord,” Doran said calmly. 

“Your grace,” he interrupted. “You will address me as ‘your grace.’” The wind whistled through the trees and the water trickling was the only sound.

“You are not a king yet, Lord Viserys. You do not wear a crown or sit on the Iron Throne. Until that point, we will address you as ‘my lord.’” Viserys’ face turned raspberry red. 

“Perhaps the Lady wishes to meet her betrothed?” Oberyn asked tactfully. “It would be a shame for them to meet on their wedding day.” Dany swallowed nervously.

“Yes. Off with you,” Viserys waved her away. Dany felt a mix of relief and terror, relief because she was being led away from her brother by Ellaria Sand, a woman who seemed to genuinely care, and fear of the masked women flanking them and the meeting of her betrothed. 

“I apologize for the behavior of my brother, Lady Ellaria,” Dany said, feeling stronger now that Viserys was not here to hurt her. “The dragon is prone to anger.”  

“He is not a dragon,” one of the masked women said. “A dragon would be fiercer, not crueler.” 

“My brother is the last dragon. He is not cruel, but he does what he must.” Dany defended him.

“Child,” Ellaria stopped and turned to face her. “Your brother is not here. None of my daughters would betray your secrets. You may speak your mind.” 

Daughters. That made sense, Dany supposed. These warrior-women must be Ellaria’s children, with whom, she did not know. “My mind says only that Viserys is the one true king of Westeros,” she recited. 

“You sound like one of those birds from Naath, who chirp back whatever their masters tell them to,” another of the fighters said. “Chirp-chirp, little bird.”

“Do shut up, Nym,” the first one said.

“You shut up,” the other one, Nym, said.

“Both of you, shut up,” the third replied. Her voice sounded the most like her mother’s, accent thick. 

“All of you, quiet,” Ellaria snapped at the three. “The lady should not hear you arguing.” She turned back to Dany. “Pardon my daughters’ informality.” They turned a corner and went into the palace. After a maze of twists and turns, Ellaria lead Dany into a room with a magnificent view of the Water Gardens. “Sit.”

“Where is Prince Trystane?” Dany asked instead. Fear began to gnaw at her gut. Are they here to kill her? Should she run, cry for help? 

“He is in the Water Gardens,” Ellaria told her. “And is currently betrothed to Princess Myrcella of House Baratheon.” 

Dany’s mouth dropped into a perfect ‘o’. 

“I— I don’t understand. I am to marry Prince Trystane, that’s what Viserys said,” Dany spluttered. “Why are we really here?”

“Stop torturing the little bird,” one of Ellaria’s daughters, Nym, said. “Just tell her.”

“Tell me what?” Dany felt her heart racing, and she leaned against a shelf to steady herself.

“Viserys could never rule the Seven Kingdoms,” Ellaria began explaining. “But you could. On this, Doran and I agree. Your brother must be dealt with, before he can bring misfortune upon Dorne. As for you, you will remain unwed until the Greyjoy’s arrive. You will then marry Lady Yara Greyjoy and obtain the entire Iron Fleet in return. From that point, you will take the Iron Throne.” 

Everything was happening too fast. The first thing that brought Dany’s heart to a stop was the implication that they were going to kill her brother. While she felt no attachment to him with his cruel ways, he was still her blood. The second thing was that they assumed she would marry a woman, nonetheless a pirate from the Iron Islands.

Too fast, too fast. 

“You are going to kill my brother?” She finally asked.

“No,” Ellaria said. “You are.”


	4. Loras

    Storm’s End was a fortress. Towering high above him, it was dark and forbidding, built to withstand a siege for years. That’s why they called it Storm’s End. To Loras, it almost felt as if it were made to lock people in, not keep them out. Highgarden was open and green and happy. This— this place was dark and solid and dark. 

He could not be afraid, he told himself. Fear meant that he would lose himself. Fear meant that they won. 

Yet, as soon as they passed through the drawbridge and steel gates, he felt his hands trembling. Would the lord of this castle be as cold as his keep?

The lightness of their horses’ coats and the shimmering armor felt out of place. The people here had dark hair and even darker eyes. Almost as if every bit of joy had seeped out of it. 

Margaery looked strong. His sister was always stronger than him. While he was a swordsman who had the strength of a knight, she could lock her emotions away, forget about them. Loras had once overheard her and their grandmother about it once. “Boxes,” Olenna had said. “Put your emotions into little boxes in your mind, and put those boxes inside a giant box. Then, push that box so far down that you forget you even had feelings.”

Loras had tried that. He had had little boxes, a big box, but his emotions kept resurfacing and taking over his mind and sense. 

This castle seemed almost as devoid of feeling as his sister. There seemed to only be one ray of light: Lord Renly Baratheon.

His armor was steel, yet it shone like the purest gold. He had his helm off, and his ruffled brown hair was mussed every way. The light that shone in the young lord’s eyes was bright and joyous. The happiness came off him like a halo and it took Loras’ breath away. 

Steel clanged as his sword slammed into his sparring partner’s both of them seeming equally matched. Loras felt his heart racing in fear as the sword brushed near Lord Renly’s face. But, the young stag leaned back in time and called off the match when he saw the Tyrells. “Lord Loras, Lady Margaery!” He greeted them each. His voice was kind and filled with laughter, a sure sign of a good man.

“Lord Renly,” Margaery bowed from atop her horse.

“Please, dismount. I am sure you have had a hard journey, and wish to head to rest as soon as possible,” Lord Renly said courteously. 

“I assure you, my lord,” Margaery said as both she and Loras stepped down from their horses. “We are not weary. Perhaps we could dine with you tonight? I would surely love to converse with you, my lord.” His sister’s voice was sweet as honey, Loras thought. 

“It would be a pleasure to host you in my halls, my lady,” Lord Renly replied. “I can take you to your chambers if you wish to freshen up.” 

“That would be well, my lord,” Loras said, realizing that his silence made him look uneducated and awkward. 

“In that case, please follow me,” Renly waved a hand and two stable hands took the reins and lead their horses away. “And welcome to Storm’s End.”

Margaery glanced at Loras over her shoulder and gave him a devious wink before returning her doting gaze to the stag. He rolled his eyes. Of course she would try to flirt with her betrothed. 

Their rooms were much more lavish than the ones that they were given by the Dondarrions. Margaery and Loras slept across the hall from each other, since Renly wouldn’t share a room with her until they were married. Loras’ room had a view of the entire castle, and even the Kingswood in the distance. The loud waves of Shipbreaker Bay crashed on the rocks and lent him a constant sound of white noise. 

While he would not deny that it had a beautiful view, it still felt like he was trapped inside some prison. 

Loras took off his riding leathers and left them strewn on his bed. Shirtless, he rummaged through his trunks, trying to find a doublet with Tyrell colors on it. Nothing. Frustrated and mildly saddened, he ran his fingers through his curled hair. “What’s wrong with you, Loras?” He asked himself quietly. 

He grabbed a loose white undershirt and pulled it on, lacing up the front with aching hands. The reins of his horse had cut into them after days of riding, and they had red blisters all over them. 

The door suddenly opened as Loras was lacing up his shirt, meaning that half of his torso was bare. 

Bare for the Lord of Storm’s End to see. 

Loras stood, frozen, for a second before realizing his mistake. “Pardon me, my lord.” He spun around, cheeks heating in embarrassment as he quickly laced his shirt, hands fumbling over the strings.

“It’s my fault. I should have knocked,” Lord Renly said apologetically. “You are to be my squire.”

“Yes, my lord.” Loras wasn’t quite sure he was breathing. “And you are to marry my sister.”

“She is quite lovely, by the way,” the stag remarked. “Very striking, and she looks quite like you.” 

“We are near enough to be twins.” He could have sworn he heard the lord sigh. 

“That is without a doubt.” Lord Renly ran a hand through his dark brown hair. “Are you any good with a sword?”

“Yes, my lord. I got very good at Highgarden.” Back home. 

“Good. Spar with me tomorrow morning? I need more of a challenge than the odd stable boy or a tower guard.” He was arrogant, Loras realized. So very arrogant. 

“Of course, my lord.” 

“Thank you. I’ll leave you to finish getting ready.” The lord’s eyes flicked over Loras, then he turned and closed the door behind him. 

Loras let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding. With shaking hands he pulled on a gold doublet and ruffled his hair with a hand. 

The hour he spent waiting for his sister were spent pacing and running his fingers through his hair in contemplation as he sat on his bed terrified that the lord would be angry with him. Margaery emerged from her room an hour later, gowned in silk. She had chosen one of her less conservative dresses, with a veed neckline that ended just shy of her stomach and an open back. The color was another intentional choice for his sister. The Baratheon colors were gold and black, and the Tyrells’ were green and gold. For Margaery, that meant that her dress would be a political statement, as well. It was completely gold, with black roses and vines snaking around her body. 

Loras slowly began to realize that he had underdressed for the situation. 

“Come, brother, it is time to dine with our gracious lord,” she said to him, reaching out nd beckoning him forward. 

When they sat next to the lord of Storm’s End, he took his betrothed’s hand almost warily. “My lady,” he greeted her. 

“My lord,” Margaery crooned. Loras could not help his eyes drifting towards Lord Renly’s face, the such perfect planes of his cheeks and— He quickly looked down, away. 

And, as they dined, Loras kept glancing at the stag, admiring the perfection that seemed to emanate from him, and his striking blue-green eyes. He could have sworn that, a couple times that night, Lord Renly gazed back.


	5. Sansa

Lady’s chest rose and fell as she slept right next to Sansa. Sansa herself, however, could not sleep at all. Every time she closed her eyes, it was her gallant Joffrey who smiled back at her, and she would take his hand and he would walk her up to the dias, and they were getting married. But then an evil witch with the eyes and hair of her mother would swoop in and take her Joffrey away, and she would wake up sobbing. 

Why couldn’t Joffrey just marry her? She loved him, and she was sure he would love her, if he had the chance to meet her. But her stupid mother was keeping Joffrey from her. 

Maybe, just to spite her, Arya would marry Joffrey. Catelyn would force Sansa to watch as her stupid sister would take her prince away from her. 

Sansa rolled over and sighed sadly. Stupid Catelyn and stupid Arya. Lady whined softly, disturbed from her sleep. She had been trained well, responding to simple commands like ‘sit’ and ‘lay.’ 

Sansa still couldn’t get her to do much else, though. “Do you miss your mother?” she whispered to her little wolf. The wolves’ mother had died in childbirth, and as soon as Sansa spoke the question, she knew it was a silly notion. Lady just whined again and rested her head on Sansa’s leg. 

A soft knock sounded on the door, three raps in close succession. “Sansa?” It was Bran, the little boy of eight. “Can I come in? Arya and Rickon were asleep and I don’t know where Jon and Robb went. My wolf can’t sleep and I was ho--” 

“Go away, Bran,” Sansa snapped. She was to mad and sad to endure her little brother’s whining. Lady whined softly when she heard her brother outside. Stupid Bran. Stupid Lady. 

When Sansa finally drifted off to sleep, she was tossing and turning because she just could not get that stupid dream out of her mind. The one where Joffrey was kissing Arya instead of her. The one where Sansa never had little golden-haired babies with him that were strong and brave like Jamie Lannister. 

Sansa wasn’t sure if it was the scrambling and yelling cooks and maids that woke her, or the constant howling of a wolf, or maybe even a premonition that something was wrong. Whatever the cause, she woke up suddenly and felt a need to run to Bran. 

She threw on a dress and cloak right as Arya pushed open the door, wrapped in Ned’s fur cloak, panting and eyes wide. Without a word, she grabbed Sansa’s hand and pulled her to the hallway. “Arya!” Sansa exclaimed indignantly. “What are you doing?” 

“Bran’s fallen,” she only said. Sansa felt her entire body go limp and Arya went back to tugging her, then they were both running towards the abandoned watchtower by the Godswood. Sansa wore no shoes, and the frosty ground made her feet numb, but she only thought about Bran and how she told him to go away. 

Was this all her fault?

There was a large crowd gathered around the base of the tower. Some were shouting to get the lord, and others were shouting that he was already here. Jon and Robb were there, and they were telling everybody to clear out, and Rickon was screaming and sobbing, and then every dire wolf in Winterfell was howling. But Sansa only saw her little brother, his red-brown hair mussed. His legs were twisted at all the wrong angles and his head was cut. “Bran!” she shouted, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her. “Bran!” Catelyn grabbed Sansa by the waist and pulled her away.

“Sansa,” she tried to calm her daughter. Sansa just screamed for her brother. “Sansa! Sansa! Look at me!” Something in her mother’s voice made her snap back into her mind, and every sound came rushing back to her, like Catelyn’s soft sobbing. Sansa buried her face into her mother’s chest, sobbing as well. Her fault, her fault, her fault, her fault. 

Then Arya was hugging them and crying, too. Stupid Sansa for thinking only of herself. 

Sansa had been born in summer, but she had lived through a winter when she was four. She never remembered the chill that could never seem to go away, no matter how many blankets and cloaks you wore. Ned often recounted some of his coldest winters, and Old Nan told stories of White Walkers that came south of the Wall when the winter got cold. 

But there was this chill that Sansa felt when she looked at her brother that made her think of winter. It may have been the way that his eyes were staring blankly towards the sky, or the sheet white color his face had become.

Her tears dried on her cheeks as every emotion bled out of her. Arya still held onto her waist and Sansa was still holding onto her mother for support, but she stared at Bran’s body. She imagined how he must have fallen, falling backwards from the tower window, hair flying upward and then he must have hit the ground.

Ned pushed the crowd away and picked up his son, limp in his strong arms. Robb and Jon followed close, and Catelyn narrowed her eyes at the bastard. “Sansa, take your sister and Rickon inside,” she whispered to Sansa, then she followed Ned and the boys. 

Sansa picked up Rickon, his four years of age keeping him light as she balanced him on her hip. She took Arya’s hand and took them both inside and into Sansa’s room. Rickon was crying as the wolves howled still, loud and constant. Arya kept wiping her eyes with Ned’s cloak. Sansa laid her brother onto her bed and tucked him in, petting his head gently. Slowly, her voice trembling, she began to sing. 

“Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray. Stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray. Soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way. Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray. Stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day.” 

It was a hymn devoted to the Mother, one of the only hymns of the Seven Sansa knew. It was originally meant as a prayer for the Mother’s mercy for sons gone off to war, but it was the only slow and calming song she could think of on the spot. 

Rickon had calmed down and was drifting back to sleep, his hazel eyes drooping. 

“Sansa,” Arya whispered, tugging on Sansa’s hand. “Come here.” 

“What do you want?” Sansa snapped quietly, trying to let Rickon rest. She pulled Arya to the corner. 

“I know Bran,” she said, worry clouding her pale blue eyes. “He wouldn't fall. He’s climbed that tower a hundred times.” 

“Arya! You should have told Mother when he climbed, you know he’s not supposed to!” Sansa exclaimed. 

“Really? That’s what you’re worried about? Sansa, I think he was pushed.” 

“He may have been startled by a crow or just slipped for all we know. Stop thinking up your fantasies of being a hero. You should be a lady.” 

“Sansa, listen!” Arya pleaded. “He couldn’t have slipped, and ravens don’t go near that tower. They say it’s haunted.” 

“Go play over there, then, if that’s what you want.” Sansa sighed. “Just don’t fall. 

“Sansa—”

“Stop, Arya. Just stop.” Sansa sighed again. “Our brother just fell out of a tower, and all you want to do is play the hero. Have some sense, by the gods. We don’t even know if he’ll live.”

Her words hit Arya hard. Tears started to form in her eyes but she blinked them away. “Do you think he’ll survive?” 

Sansa shook her head and pulled Arya into a hug. “I don’t know, Arya. I don’t know.”

Sansa paced back and forth for almost an hour before Catelyn came for them. Her eyes were red, and she had her arms wrapped around her waist. Arya was curled on the chair in the corner, asleep, and Rickon was still out on Sansa’s bed. Catelyn looked around and then pulled Sansa out to the hallway. “Bran—” Sansa started.

“Maester Luwin isn’t sure if he’ll wake up. He’s alive, though.” Sansa heaved a sigh of relief, thanking the old gods for their mercy. But Catelyn was not finished. “And we’ve received word from King’s Landing. You’re to go with Ned and Arya.”

Sansa could not breathe. She could only stare as her mother said “King Robert has arranged a marriage between you and Joffrey Baratheon.” 


	6. Daenerys

The poison bottle weighed heavily in Dany’s hand. “Give it to your brother,” Ellaria Sand had said. “Whenever you feel like it, do it.” The Sand Snakes had called it the Long Farewell. They said that she only had to put a drop on her lips and kiss him, if he wanted, and then take the antidote herself. Depending on his metabolism, it would kill him outright, or slowly over days.

Tyene said that since the Targaryens wed brother to sister, the incest would make him, and Dany, more susceptible to the poison. So she had better take the antidote soon after she poisoned him.

Viserys had never been nice to her. He had beaten her and harassed her. There had come times when he had almost… Dany didn’t want to think of those now. But he was still her brother. This deception, _killing him_ , it would be the hardest thing she had ever done.

When she doubted she could do it, she would think back to Rhaenys and Visenya, Rhaena and Alyssa and Alyssane and Aerea, and every other Targaryen woman before her. How they would not have hesitated to kill someone who was cruel and evil towards them. Towards all.

 _For Rhaenys_ , Dany would chant in her mind. _For Visenya. For Rhaena and Alyssa. For Alyssane and Area. For me._ Yet she still could not bring the vial to her lips or let a drop fall onto Viserys’ food.

Dany paced the long halls of Sunspear’s castle, the red sandstone walls arching high above her. Could she kill Viserys? Did she have what it took? Myrcella was arriving in Dorne in under a month. Dany had under a month to kill her brother.

“Second thoughts, Little Bird?” Tyene Sand said behind her. Dany whirled around and jumped a little in surprise. Tyene had taken to calling Dany ‘Little Bird,’ and even Nymeria and Obarra had said it once or twice.

“No,” Dany lied. The Sand Snake did not seem convinced. “No,” she said with more conviction.

“Listen, Little Bird.” There was that silly nickname again. “If Mother had come to me and asked me to kill Nym or Obarra, I wouldn’t. Now, I know it’s different. I would kill for my sisters. I _have_ killed for them. Father has killed for us and Mother, too. But your brother,” Tyene walked closer and looked Dany in the eyes. “He will bring the realm only pain and suffering. He has only brought you pain and suffering. If you do not use the poison, I could do it for you. I know how hard it is to kill for the first time.”

It meant a lot for Tyene to offer that to Dany. It meant that, for once, Dany was not alone. “Thank you, my lady,” she said.

“Call me Tyene. I’d prefer to never be a lady.”

“Then thank you, Tyene.”

“Remember, Daenerys. If you cannot go through with this, don’t hesitate to call for me.”

“I will kill him,” Dany said, and she meant it. With that, she turned on her heel and went straight back to her and her brothers suite of rooms. Irri and Jhiqui were tending to her bed, pulling the silken sheets up to the piles of pillows. “Fetch my brother. Tell him his sister has a gift for him.” Irri shook her head.

“His Grace said to not be disturbed. He is with Doreah.” That only strengthened Dany’s resolve. She would help Doreah free herself from her cruel brother.

“I command you to bring him to me,” Dany snapped. Jhiqui said something to Irri in Dothraki and then scurried out. “Leave me,” she commanded Irri. The Dothraki girl nodded and walked out. Before she left, she turned back to Dany.

“Khaleesi,” she said to her.

“What does that mean?”

“Khaleesi is the wife of the Khal. She is his queen. You are our queen, Khaleesi. You will free us.” Dany felt her heart flutter in gratitude. “Lady Snake told us what you are to do, to help you. If you need anything, call for me. Lady Snake’s daughter will be nearby.” With that, Irri left the room like a wraith.

“Thank you,” she whispered, knowing that Irri could not hear her. It was then that Dany noticed the dress laying on the bed. It was a flimsy thing, barely big enough to cover her whole body, fit for a whore. On it was a little note with nothing but a V. A V for Viserys.

She tossed it into the fire.

Her dress of choice was a deep red, the color of Arbor wine. It covered her nicely, but perfect for her purposes right then. She slipped it on and pulled her hair out of the braids. Lastly, she dropped a necklace around her neck, a little blue vial at the bottom. The antidote.

Dany gripped the bottle tight and kept her hand from shaking. She lifted the amber liquid and sloshed it against her lips, careful to not swallow any. It burned her lips like the Lysene peppers’ spice. A moment after she had hid the vial under the mattress, Viserys barged in, Jhiqui being pulled behind him with her hair. “YOU DARE SUMMON ME?” he roared.

“Brother, let her go, please,” Dany begged, letting her voice waver to fully convince him of her emotions. Disgustedly, he let go of Jhiqui and she whimpered. “Leave us, bitch,” Dany commanded Jhiqui. She would apologize later.

“What is the meaning of this, Dany?” he snapped. “I cannot be summoned like a mongrel pup!”

“Dear Viserys, I have a gift for you,” she said, walking over to him, letting her hips sway slightly. She knew her brother, how he thought and how reckless and impulsive he could be. Right now, she was playing to every one of them to her advantage.

Already, she felt a little faint, the poison working its way into her system. She had to work quickly.

Standing on the tip of her toes, she draped her arms around her brother and kissed him lightly on the lips. Viserys looked shocked, then shock gave way to desire. He grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her closer, pushing his tongue in and pushing her roughly against the wall. She kissed back, letting him take in every drop of poison.

After just a second, she pulled away and danced away. Viserys looked cruelly at her, his eyes filled with desire and passion and hatred. “Come. Here,” he growled.

“Later, dear brother. Tonight, where there are not so many eyes,” she said, Viserys falling into her neat little trap.

She felt faint. She had to take the antidote, _now_. Dany skirted around her brother, eyes still wild with rage. She left the room without so much as another word. Looking at the guard outside her door, she lied, “My brother has need of you.” He nodded and went into the room. Dany quickly walked down the hall and hid in a little alcove. Panting, she snapped the little blue antidote from her neck and drank the whole thing. Quickly, she felt better and more alert. Irri appeared at her side, bowing her head. “Tell Ellaria Sand that it is done,” Dany told the girl.

“Lady Snake already knows. Lady Snake wishes to meet you in the Water Gardens.” Irri bowed again and walked away. “ _Neak atthirar khaleesi,_ ” Irri said. “Long live queen.”

Then the shouting started. “Viserys is dead!” they shouted.

Tyene appeared next to Dany abruptly. “Well done, Little Bird. We’ll make a dragon of you yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I don't normally do this, but would you all like some other characters POV? Let me know in the comments if you want anyone specific!


	7. Loras

It occurred to Loras that Lord Renly had an easy smile. It had this quality to light up an atmosphere and lift spirits that Loras didn’t know were down. In the few weeks he had been at Storm’s End, he had found that he spent most of his time split between sparring and helping Lord Renly, and tailing his sister around the keep. 

He had grown to like the young lord, sparring with him every morning, and sometimes just walking around Storm’s End with him, learning the little secrets of the Baratheon’s ancestral home. There was this little hidden staircase behind a wall that would take him and Lord Renly up to the top of the towers, where they would sometimes sit. 

Another thing about the stag was that he was good with a sword.

Renly was a strong believer that he should be able to fight if he were to send others to fight on his behalf. His lord father, Steffon Baratheon, had made all his sons learn to use a sword. Stannis had taken to the sword the most of the three brothers. King Robert was an excellent swordsman-- to say any less would be a lie-- and it was his prowess with a warhammer that finally ended Robert’s Rebellion. Renly was unlike his brothers in that he was not a warrior. 

Although he was not a true fighter, Lord Renly was skilled with a weapon in his hand.

Loras gripped his sword tightly as he blocked one of Lord Renly’s strong blows. Many of the residents of Storm’s End would gather round Loras and their lord as they sparred, placing bets and cheering their favorite. At the start, everyone cheered on their lord. As Loras grew more popular among the guards and soldiers, more and more people would cheer for him. 

He swung his sword at Renly, a savage side cut designed to hit right beneath the breastplate of a piece of armor. The young stag barely blocked it, but the force knocked the blade from his hand. The assembled cheered as Loras knocked down the lord and held his sword to his throat. “Well done, my Lord,” Loras remarked as he helped Renly up.

Their gloved hands remained on the other’s for a moment too long. “Not good enough,” Lord Renly replied. “You still beat me.” 

“Against a common foot soldier, you would  _ always  _ come out victor,” Loras said. “I like to think that I am above average.” That earned a chuckle from the assembled men. 

“Your beliefs are well founded,” Renly praised. “How about a hunt? Two of your best men, two of mine, and both of us, whoever brings home the biggest catch is the best.” 

“I wouldn’t want to embarrass you, my Lord,” Loras said with a little smirk. Another laugh from the men, as well as Renly. 

“I am grateful for your modesty.” He beckoned Loras to follow him away from the gathered men. He began to unbutton his leather armor and sword belt. Renly had respected Loras’ highborn nature more than most lords. Loras was never forced to serve wine or serve bread. He would help Renly with his swords, sometimes act as part of his household guard, but Lord Renly rarely forced him to do anything that could cause him to lose respect. “I meant it, you know. We should go on a hunt,” Renly said as he pulled on a doublet over his white undershirt. 

“I agree, my Lord,” Loras replied. “A hunt would improve morale among your household guard.” 

Renly sighed audibly. “Two things. First: you are welcome to call me Renly, formality is certainly not one of my strong suits. Second: not just the household guard. You, me, and a few of our best men.”

The request shocked Loras slightly. Both requests. “My Lord--”

“Who are your best men?”

“Denys Redwyne and Franklyn Flowers,” Loras said immediately. 

“Tell them to meet at the front gates tomorrow morning at dawn. Bring swords and bows and spears. You too, Loras. We’re going hunting.” 

Loras could not stop thinking of his and Renly’s conversation the entire day. Margaery was especially peeved when he kept zoning out while she was talking. Loras had gone hunting many times at Highgarden, but he was always behind his lord father, Mace, and a dozen of their household guards. Ser Franklyn had been his closest friend while he was growing up, other  than his sister and grandmother. Yet the anticipation he felt to hunt with Renly was unparalleled. 

“Loras. Loras!” Margaery’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Are you even listening to me?” Her brown eyes were impatient and annoyed, yet pitying. 

“Sorry. Just… thinking.” 

“I don’t know why this is getting you so distracted,” Margaery sighed.

“Me neither. So what were you saying?” 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter anyway. You’re taking Denys and Franklyn?” 

“Renly-- Lord Renly asked for our best men. I gave their names.” 

“Well, you’re not wrong on Flowers.” She looked out the window, where the night sky was taking over the reddened sky. “I should get some rest.” She kissed his forehead and swept out with a flourish of her silk robe. Loras sat on the edge of his bed, resting his head in his hands. A face with turquoise eyes seemed to be burnt onto his eyelids, unwavering and constant. His easy smile, his tousled brown hair, everything about him seemed to hover in front of Loras.

He drifted off to sleep, thinking about the kind lord of Storm’s End.

What was this infatuation that Loras had developed with Renly?

The light of dawn pierced through his still-open curtains, rousing Loras.  _ Meet me at the front gates at dawn _ , Renly’s voice echoed in his mind. Loras leapt out of his bed and threw on a leather doublet and trousers. As an afterthought, he tugged on his sword belt and sheathed his sword. The sun was just touching the tops of the trees once he met Franklyn and Ser Denys at the gate. 

It was only a minute until Renly appeared, with two lightly armored knights at his side. Loras recognized Ser Cortnay Penrose, and the other was a sworn knight with a coat of arms unfamiliar to Loras. Behind them was a portly man with a grizzled beard and a bald head. “Ser Harbet,” Renly introduced him. “The weapons master here.” Ser Harbet handed Loras a boar spear, and handed his two men the same weapon. “There was a boar spotted by one of the villages around the Stagswood. Thought we might want to hunt it.” 

Loras shrugged. “After you, my Lord.” Renly and his men mounted their horses, the Tyrells right after. Ser Cortnay and Renly’s other man trotted ahead of their lord, and Franklyn and Ser Denys trotted behind. Renly’s black and white stallion matched Loras’ mare’s pace. “Forgive me, Lord Renly, but I was wondering why the guard does not handle this themselves? Why must you endanger yourself with this hunt?” Renly gave a wry smile.

“Ser Cortnay and Ser Colen could have gone along with others of my household, but where’s the fun in that?” he smirked. “Anyway, how could I tell how skilled you are without some field practice?” Loras raised an eyebrow. Renly was unpredictable, Loras would give him that. Another question nagged him, too. Why did Renly care how good he was? 

“My Lord, why is my skill set important? I am only your squire.” And an older one at that. Most squires were fourteen to seventeen years old. Loras was nineteen, only a year younger than Renly himself. 

“A man like you should not be a squire,” Renly replied slowly. “Ser Cortnay suggested that my household guard is small for a lord. Especially the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. He suggested that a proficient swordsman such as you deserves more than being a squire.”

“I don’t understand,” Loras said, but as he spoke, Renly’s words began to make sense. 

“How do you want to be a knight, Loras?” 

Loras stopped his horse abruptly. He recovered quickly and nudged his horse back into a trot. He imagined a for a moment being a part of Renly’s guard. Protecting him and being near him for as long as he served him. At least until Mace Tyrell died and Loras would have to return to Highgarden. 

“I would like that very much, my Lord.” 


	8. Sansa

Sansa could barely breathe. King’s Landing. Joffrey. Her prince had finally called for her. She expected her answer to her mother to be thanks or a hug, but what came out of her mouth was neither. 

“Why does Arya have to come?” Catelyn looked at Sansa reproachfully. “She’s not a proper lady. She’ll mess everything up.”

Catelyn shook her head sadly. “Arya is going with you. I have to stay with Bran and the boys.” 

“Will we come back when Bran wakes up?” The only thing that echoed in her mind was Joffrey and Bran. But mainly Joffrey. She loved Joffrey. 

“I will send word to King’s Landing once your brother wakes. It is up to the Prince and King whether or not you can visit, though. You may be caught up in wedding plans by then,” she replied. Something in Catelyn’s eyes was a deeper kind of sorrow. She was losing all of her children. Losing Sansa and Bran and even stupid Arya. It left Sansa feeling empty. 

“Mother?” Sansa asked, looking up to Catelyn’s eyes. “Can I see Bran?” 

Catelyn tightened her arms around herself and looked down. It surprised Sansa to see her normally strong and steely mother to look this vulnerable and weak. It scared her. “I don’t think that would be wise right now.” There was something that made the hairs on Sansa’s neck stand on end. Though she couldn’t place it, it made her shiver a little. “The wolves,” Catelyn breathed. “They stopped howling.” With a prayer to the old gods, she took off, running up to the Maester’s tower. 

Arya sat on Sansa’s bed, slowly petting Rickon’s hair and singing softly. She did not have a pretty voice, but she knew many different songs like the Bear and Maiden Fair, and even the Rains of Castamere. Her brown hair swished over her face when she looked up at Sansa, eyes red and expectant. “Bran?” 

Sansa thought of Catelyn’s stance and vulnerable way of speaking. “He’s alive,” she only said. Arya seemed to understand her unspoken words, nodding slowly. “We’re to head to King’s Landing soon. King Robert has arranged my marriage to Prince Joffrey.” 

“Are you happy? You got what you wanted,” Arya said, voice suddenly bitter. “Did you even ask where she would send Jon? She hates him, I might never see him again.” Tears sprang to both the girls’ eyes. Sansa did not try to blink them away, instead letting them slide slowly down her cheeks. Even though Arya drove Sansa half to insanity, she was her sister. 

“I’ll miss him too, Arya. I’ll miss all of them, but this is a  _ royal summons _ . We can’t bring a bastard with us to King’s Landing.” As soon as she said the words, a bitter taste filled her mouth. Tears welled in Arya’s eyes. “Arya,” Sansa tried to say.

“Just shut up, Sansa. You’ve got what you wanted,” Arya repeated, sounding betrayed. She stormed off, yanking her red hair out of its braid and wrapping her father’s cloak tightly around her. Pausing at the door, she turned around. “And just so you know: your dream is costing me mine.” 

She swept away, leaving Sansa alone with her tears. 

Sansa crumpled to the floor, the weight of the day finally catching up to her. Tears streamed down her face in little rivulets and pooling on the floor below. She wept for Bran, so young to lose everything and, because of her, he had. She wept because she loved Winterfell in a way she doubted anyone else could, and leaving it would make her heart ache as it ached now. And finally, she wept for herself, for being so selfish that she did not realize that Arya might have had a dream of her own. 

Drying her eyes, she changed from her nightdress into a more substantial outfit. The light blue dress that she had made to impress Joffrey. But she did not wear it for him. It was her dress, her masterpiece, and she would wear it for herself and nobody else. Feeling the cold air outside, she wrapped a light cloak around her shoulders. Her hair was down and she kept it that way. Looking in the mirror, a Tully face stared back at her, but somehow, she looked more like a Stark than ever. 

With a slight smile, she pressed a kiss to Rickon’s forehead and walked out of the room. A brisk breeze whipped through the windows and took Sansa’s hair in its grasp. Somehow, it made her feel… wild. The kennels were getting more and more crowded as the dire wolves grew and needed more space. Their relentless howling hurt Sansa’s ears as she unlocked Lady’s and Nymeria’s kennel and put them on their leashes. 

“What are you doing with Nymeria?” Arya asked from the doorway. Sansa felt a sense of satisfaction. Her plan had worked. 

Grinning, she turned to look at Arya. “I have an idea, but you have to promise to not tell anyone. Not even Father or Mother or Jon.” Whether it was her words or something in Sansa’s eyes, Arya smiled too.

“What did you have in mind?” 

“Care to go for a ride?”

Moments later, Sansa and Arya were barreling through the castle gates on their horses, their wolves barking and racing ahead of them. Shouts of surprise sounded from the guards as the girls swept by them and galloped like the hounds of the seven hells were behind them. They turned into the Wolfswood and let their wolves run free. Arya let out a whoop of joy and nudged her horse into a faster pace. “Bet you can’t beat me!” she shouted. 

Sansa laughed. “Oh, you wish!” She kicked her horse into a sprint, flying over tree roots and fallen branches and creeks. Her mare sped past Arya’s and into a large clearing. Horses panting, they dismounted. 

Arya ran her fingers through her hair. Her cheeks were pink in the cool air and she was breathing heavily from exhilaration. “Why?” she asked suddenly. Sansa raised an eyebrow.

“Why what?”

“Why did you get so… it’s just, this is unlike you. You’re the proper lady and I’m the odd one.” She said it not like she was bitter or mad about it, just stating a fact. 

Sansa shrugged. “I needed to take a break. From-- from all of that,” she gestured vaguely in the direction of Winterfell. “I’m not ready to leave Winterfell. This is my home.”

“You were always meant to be a Southerner,” Arya stated. “You’ve got the ladylike Southern aura. I’m the wild and loyal Northerner. We were never meant to be friends.” She picked at the grass lazily. 

“The old gods must have had their reasons for making us like this,” Sansa decided. “You’re my sister. You’re wild and your head is always up in a cloud of fantasies, but you’re still my sister.”  

Arya smiled a little, eyes still fixed on the grass she was uprooting. “Are you ready to marry Joffrey?” she only asked.

“I don’t know,” Sansa said. It was the truth. “I was always told that I would marry him. Father said so, Robb said so, Septa Mordane said so, I just accepted it as the truth. Now that it’s actually happening,” she lifted a shaking hand to show Arya. “I’m terrified.” 

“I never hated you,” Arya replied. “Whatever happens, you can talk to me. You’re the strongest person I know.”

“Same goes for you.” 

For the first time in what felt like years, Sansa pulled Arya into an embrace. Now like the ones that Catelyn or Ned had forced them into when they were arguing, but a true one where they cared enough about each other to hug tightly. For real. 


	9. Daenerys

No bells tolled for Viserys. No bells rang across the city for his death. 

They rang for an entirely different reason.

Black sails dominated the horizon, at least fifty gold krakens pasted on the dark fabrics. The Greyjoys had arrived in Dorne. 

Dany watched silently as the ships sailed into the docks. Her balcony had a perfect view of the bay where the Iron Fleet was gathering. In any other context, Dany was sure that she would be running for her life. Yet she was staring out at the rest of the Dornish welcoming the Greyjoys. Her future wife.

A pit of dread had formed in her stomach the moment she woke up. The black sails seemed to her like mourning dress, taking over the entire city. The knowledge of Dany’s arrival in Dorne had been kept largely a secret, Tyene had told her. They had strolled through Sunspear, Dany’s silver hair dyed a dull brown to disguise her. Tyene had decreed it necessary to keep her safe from Varys’ spies.

Only a day later, though, a message had arrived for the Sand Snakes from the Spider. They had shown Dany shortly after.  _ I know that the Targaryen girl is in Dorne _ , it read.  _ I will not betray her to the king, for I believe she might make for a better ruler than Robert. I also am aware of Yara Greyjoy’s betrothal to the Targaryen. As soon as word reaches the king’s ear, it will be war. Are you prepared?  _

Lady Ellaria had cast it into the fire a moment after Dany read it. It had felt as if a massive boulder had been set upon her shoulders, for her alone to bear. Obara had soon dispelled that notion, though. “The Spider is right,” she had said. “Once word of your marriage gets out, it will be war.” 

Nymeria had another idea. “Myrcella arrives in under two weeks. Wait to announce it until she is here, then take her as a hostage. The king would not allow anything to happen to his daughter.” 

“Nor would Doran,” Obara had told her.

Then Ellaria had stood and waved their worries away. “Do not worry. Doran will be taken care of.”

A hand rested of Dany’s shoulder, jolting her out of the memory. It was Tyene, frowning slightly as she beheld the sight. “Seems to me that Lady Greyjoy is just trying to tell everyone she has come.” 

“Will the Spider keep it all a secret?” Dany asked. She had never met Robert Baratheon’s Master of Spies, but his reputation preceded him. 

“Never trust Lord Varys or Petyr Baelish and you will never be disappointed,” Tyene said vaguely. “Littlefinger is as conniving as he is arrogant. And he is plenty arrogant.” Dany had heard of the wealthy Master of Coin, who built his empire by investing in brothels and the whores they contained. 

“Have you ever been to King’s Landing?” 

“I’ve never left Dorne, Little Bird,” she replied. There was a sense of wistfulness to her voice that made Dany question whether she was lying or not. “Come, your handmaidens should begin to prepare you for your wedding day.” 

Dany called for the Dothraki girls. Doreah drew up a bath as Irri and Jhiqui plucked her dress from the wardrobe. Steam rose from the bath as Doreah swiped a hand into the water. She yelped as it burned her hand. Jhiqui helped her out with barely a word, leaving the room in a flurry. 

In a daze, Dany stepped into the tub, the water comfortable around her bare skin. “No, khaleesi, it is too hot!” Irri exclaimed, but to Dany, the water was not hot at all. “Khaleesi,” she breathed in a mix of horror and wonder. Dany waved her away and dipped her head into the water. It rushed in over her face and soaked into her hair, turning the pale silver to a dull grey. She stayed that way for what felt like ages until the water had run cold and she was shivering. 

Irri said nothing as she braided small strands of Dany’s hair. The two small braids were tied in the back, wrapping her hair neatly behind her shoulders. “It is Dothraki--  _ osimikh _ ,” Irri searched for the word, “tradition for khal to wear braids when he wins a victory. You have won two, khaleesi.” 

Dany felt strangely touched. “How do you say thank you in Dothraki?”

Irri looked uncomfortable, and for a moment, Dany worried that she had said something to upset the Dothraki girl. After a while, she spoke. “There is no word for thank you in Dothraki, khaleesi. The Dothraki do not ask for what they wish to have. They take.”

“Is there no word to express gratitude?” She asked, shocked at the barbaric ways of the Dothraki.

The handmaiden thought for a moment. “ _ San athchomari yeraan _ ,” she finally decided. “It means ‘much honor upon you.’” 

“In that case,  _ san athchomari yeraan _ , Irri,” Dany said. Irri’s eyes widened in horror. 

“Khaleesi, no, it is not meant to be said to a slave,” she exclaimed. “Come here, it is time to put on your wedding dress.”

Her wedding dress was silk and ivory. Westerosi weddings traditionally were some shade of white, and Dany would wear a cape with the Targaryen colors and sigil on it. She did not know what her bride was going to wear. 

Dany’s dress was simple enough, a pale sheet of silk. It tightened around her chest and waist and hips, flowing out from below her hips to the ground. The train was long, fading into a red, orange, and yellow flame pattern. Dragonfire. 

The sleeves were translucent, clutching tightly to her arms and down to her wrists, with pearled beads and sea glass sewn on. It was these little trinkets that were meant to please Yara Greyjoy, the jewels of the sea for the lady of the sea. 

Dany felt regal in her gown. And the silver circlet that rested on her head only helped to strengthen that feeling. She glanced out her window once more.

The black sails and ships had moored in the bay and the harbor and the fiery sun had nearly disappeared beneath the horizon. Her skirt rippled in the cold ocean breeze, flapping lightly against her skin. It felt to her like it was beckoning her to fly away on the wind. She thought about her history, of the great Rhaenys Targaryen who flew the beast Meraxes. Dany had always wondered how it would be to be as free as Rhaenys was. What it would feel like to have the wind rip at her face as she soared through the sky on a giant dragon, with people cheering for her below on the earth. But the dragons were all gone.

She was so lost in her fantasies that she barely noticed the knock on her door. It was a light rap. “Time to go, Little Bird,” Tyene’s voice said. “Your bride awaits.”

Dany followed the Sand Snake to the sept. Had Rhaenys seen the sept like this when she flew to conquer Dorne? Did she pray to the Seven when she was shot from the sky, looking to this place? Dany would never know.

At least a hundred people had gathered to watch the proceedings. They wore the same gold and orange silks as most of the Dornish did, but these were nicer than any Dany had ever seen.

At the very end of the aisle of people was Yara Greyjoy. She wore no dress, instead opting to wear a white bodice and long black pants that clung to her strong legs. Her hair was in a tight braid that was draped over her shoulder, the brown locks straining against the ties. She, like Dany, had worn a cloak with her house’s sigil on it. 

It took Dany quite a long moment to realize that Yara was beautiful. Perhaps not in a traditional way. Her breasts were not full, her body was built for fighting instead of beauty, but yet she had this radiance that took Dany’s breath away. 

Ellaria extended her arm and escorted Dany down the aisle, past the assembled Dornish and up to her bride. Dany’s black and red Targaryen cloak floated noiselessly behind her as she ascended the steps and faced Yara. The septon began to recite the wedding rituals and vows, but Dany felt herself fall into Yara’s eyes. 

They seemed to suck her in, the dark blue that they were. They were like the deep ocean, and the stormy night, lapis lazuli or sapphire, but even then there were no words to describe the emotion within them. It was fiery passion and icy calculation at the same time, arrogance and humbleness. As Dany watched her, Yara watched back. 

The septon continued his speech. “Daenerys of the House Targaryen, do you pledge yourself to Yara of the House Greyjoy?”

Dany found her voice, tearing her gaze from Yara. “I do.”

“Yara of the House Greyjoy, do you pledge yourself to Daenerys of the House Targaryen?”

Yara smirked at Dany a little, with a wildness in her eyes that made Dany instantly like her. “I do.” 

“Now, it is time for you to trade your maiden cloaks,” the septon announced. Ellaria stepped forward and took of Dany’s cloak. Yara stepped behind her and draped her Greyjoy cloak over Dany’s shoulders. Her fingers brushed against Dany’s neck slightly, sending a shiver down her spine. Ellaria handed Dany the Targaryen cloak, and she fastened the heavy fabric over Yara. Feeling adventurous, she let her breath caress Yara’s neck in just a way that she would know that it was no accident.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife,” Yara said.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife,” Dany repeated. Yara and Dany both stepped forward. Yara took Dany by the waist and pulled her into a kiss. It was short, but the way that Yara brushed her tongue over Dany’s lips promised much more would come that night. 

They separated and the septon lifted his robed arms. “Mother, Maiden, Crone. Father, Warrior, Smith. Stranger. One flesh, one soul, one heart, now and forever. I now pronounce you married.” 

“I am hers, and she is mine,” Dany and Yara said in unison. Yara smiled at Dany, only Dany, and her eyes glittered. Not with joy, they didn’t even know each other.

That look was a promise, Dany knew. And by the gods, Dany was ready. 


	10. Yara

    Yara Greyjoy had never been to Dorne before. She had always imagined it to be endless sands and stifling heat. It was, but she was certainly liking it so far. Daenerys Targaryen was so  _ very  _ desirable. Her silver hair was like the moon but her lavender eyes were as fiery as the sun, passion glittering in them like the dragon she was.

The banquet after the wedding ceremony was a traditional wedding feast. There were seven courses for each of the Seven, then the gift exchange from the lesser and greater nobility to the wedded pair. Daenerys sat next to Yara, her pale hands folded neatly into her lap. Every once in a while, she would glance over to Yara with a gleam in her eye, then go back to eating her food, slowly and deliberately. 

After the guests picked clean the food and pigeon pie, the nobility gathered to present their gifts to Yara and Daenerys. The minor lords gifted silks and wines, lengthy tomes and scriptures, lyres and a million other things. Once the wealthier lords came, the gifts became increasingly extravagant. One lady with the black hair and brown skin of the Dornish lay a sword at Yara’s feet. “Valyrian steel, Lady Greyjoy,” she said. 

Yara slid it out of its sheath with a flourish to admire the metalwork. The blade shimmered and shone in the firelight, etchings of dragons and krakens adorning the blade and a dragon’s claw holding the pommel. It was a magnificent weapon, fit for a king. 

_ Or _ , Yara thought,  _ a queen _ . 

“Aegon the Conqueror used a sword named Blackfyre to conquer the Westeros,” Yara announced. “His descendant and I will conquer it again with a new blade: Whitefyre.” A cheer rose from the crowd, and Daenerys’ eyes sparkled with joy at the memorial to her ancestor. Yara tucked Whitefyre back into its sheath and set it in between her and Daenerys. Her wife’s eyes admired the sheath and hilt, but not the blade. 

The next lord presented Daenerys with a necklace. It was embedded with rubies and gold and what may have been dragonglass. It was a beautiful gift, and it looked much more beautiful on Daenerys. A thought flitted through Yara’s mind that she would be sure to carry out later in the night. 

The next and final gift was from Ellaria Sand and her Sand Snakes. Yara liked these women. They were warriors, strong and capable of fighting, with spirit and cunning as well. Ellaria brought forward a chest and unlatched it for them. What was inside took the entire room’s breath away.

Three dragon eggs, turned to stone in their old age. Yara’s history lessons came flooding back to her as she remembered Lady Elissa Farman, Queen Rhaena’s paramour. She also remembered how Lady Elissa stole three dragon eggs from Dragonstone and sailed for Pentos. Millenia of trade must have brought them here, returned to a Targaryen. 

Eggs like this, perhaps the last in the world, would cost a kingdom and a half. 

Daenerys gently took the largest egg in her hands and felt the smooth scaly exterior. Grey stone crept up from the bottom and was beginning to take of the red and black coloring of the egg, proving its old age. It was as if the fire had been entirely sucked out of it. 

After the gift-giving, it was Yara’s preferred part of the night. The bedding ceremony. They had decided to forgo the usual witness rite and all the bullshit that went along with it, so it would just be the two newlyweds and a ceremonial bed. 

That was how Yara found herself leaning against the doorframe, staring at Daenerys, both of them wanting something from the other but not yet wanting to say it. As always, Yara was the most forward.

She kicked the door shut and stalked towards the Dragon Queen. The room was big, she’d give the Dornish that, but it only took her a few paces to have Daenerys pushed against the wall.

One brush of her tongue against of the seam between her lips had Daenerys opening up wholly for her. Her hand kept her pinned against the wall and she let Yara’s tongue explore her mouth. She moaned into the feeling and rapidly began to undress. It took Yara a moment to undo the straps on her bodice and let it fall to the floor along with the flexible strap of fabric she used to make her breasts less of an issue when she fought. 

Then Daenerys pushed her away, darting past Yara and standing in the center of the room. Both of them were panting and Daenerys’ eyes were wild with the exhilaration. For a moment, Yara wondered if Daenerys did not want this. 

But, their eyes locked and Daenerys began to slowly move to the bed. She kept the eye contact as she laid herself down on the soft sheets, a sensual smile playing at her lips. 

One movement had her at the foot of the bed, heart pounding in her ears.

Another had her crawling on top of the queen and connecting their lips. 

A third had Daenerys moaning so loudly into her mouth that it likely woke half of the castle.

The sound snapped the fragile leash that Yara held on herself and she unleashed herself on Daenerys. 

The rest of the night, she made Daenerys moan loud enough to let the entire world know what happened that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this??? Two updates within a week??? Well, this is a short one, but still, I hope you all liked it.


	11. Loras

“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” Renly’s voice echoed through the hall as he tapped the flat of his blade on Loras’ shoulder. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and the innocent. In the name of the Seven, I charge you to uphold your vows, until your death.” He picked up his sword and rested it once, on Loras’ head. 

When he removed it, he announced: “Rise, Ser Loras, Knight of the Flowers.” 

Loras stood and took the sword offered to him. Once more, he knelt. “I offer my services to Lord Renly of the House Baratheon,” he said, strong and clear. Renly seemed taken aback: he wasn’t expecting Loras to swear fealty to him. “I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be.” Typically, a knight swearing fealty would end there, swearing it by both the Old and New Gods. But Loras continued. “Wherever you go, I will follow. Your people shall be my people, and your Gods shall be my Gods. I swear that until my life does end, I shall not leave your side. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.” 

A hush fell over the crowd as they watched. Loras craned his neck upwards to see Renly, to see the ghost of a smile that danced on his lips. Almost proudly, Renly responded in traditional fashion. “I vow that you will always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.” Unlike Loras, he kept to the normal dialogue. A couple of moments later, Loras stood to the cheers of the entire hall. 

Renly leaned in close to Loras, close enough for his breath to tickle Loras’ cheek, sending a shiver down his spine. “They cheer for you, Ser,” he whispered. The smell of the forest left abruptly as Renly returned to his position, leaving Loras both shocked and a little gratified. He felt his face begin to flush and he prayed to the Seven that the onlookers couldn’t notice.

Once the sounds quieted, Renly made another announcement. “King Robert Baratheon, my brother, has requested my presence in King’s Landing. A position on the small council has been left vacant due to the departure of Lord Mallister, and my brother has requested I replace him as Master of Laws. I will leave within a fortnight, accompanied by my betrothed.” 

Silence fell over the assembled. Loras was stunned, and a pang of sorrow sliced through him for a moment. It was quickly dispelled when Renly continued. “I will be married in the Sept of Baelor to my dearest Margaery. I will choose thirty of my household staff to accompany me, along with Ser Loras, Ser Cortnay Penrose, and Ser Harbet.” There were some whispers around the assembled. A few of them glanced at Loras with suspicion in their eyes. Even after being at Storm’s End for over two months, the denizens hadn’t warmed to him. 

They say that the northerners are a proud bunch, who dislike the southerners and are hostile to all who don’t live in the north. Honorable, those northerners are. But Loras had begun to suspect that the southerners were the colder of the two.

“That is all. If any man has business with me, come forward now.” Then began the normal holding of council that Loras had become familiar to. His eyes kept drifting to Renly, and a few times, he caught Renly’s eyes drifting to him. Every time their gazes locked onto each other, Loras felt a shiver of… something.

He was not quite sure what it was, but the feeling was live water being dripped down his spine. Or maybe, it was almost a little squeeze in his chest. Sometimes, his breath just left him, so his lungs contracted and twisted in a pleasantly painful way. After a time, it hurt to just look at Renly, smiling cordially to all of his subjects. The kindness that he showed to them all-- 

Loras almost clutched at his chest because of the pang of emotion that stabbed through his heart. Tears sprung to his eyes and he frantically blinked them away. He could  _ not  _ show weakness, not now that he was a knight. 

Margaery emerged from another door and made her way to Renly, two of the Tyrell bannermen escorting her. Her brown hair looked almost rosy in the torchlight and her shimmering gold dress sparkled everywhere the light hit it. Renly stood and took her hand in his, pressing his lips softly to her knuckles. He smiled to her and she smiled back, brushing a lock away from the plunging neckline to reveal even more of her bared skin. 

Renly did not so much as look down for a second, instead pulling out a chair for her to be seated. They sank into their seats, still hand-in-hand, and Loras felt like screaming.

It took much too long for the council session to be over. 

Ser Cortnay and Ser Harbet left Loras to accompany Renly back to his chambers as the sun began to dip below the horizon. They walked in silence, only pausing for Renly to nod a greeting. When they reached the door to Renly’s quarters, Loras opened the door for him. Renly did not enter. “Your sister is quite the woman,” Renly remarked. He waved a hand, beckoning Loras to enter. When he did, Renly shut the door behind them.

“I am glad she meets your expectations, my lord,” Loras replied cautiously. He was not sure if the young lord was testing him. 

“She certainly does,” Renly said, his back turned as he poured a glass of wine. “Want any?” he offered, hovering the jug over an empty glass.

“No, thank you, my lord,” Loras said. Renly shot him a look.

“I’ve asked you to call me Renly.” 

“Sorry, my lord-- Renly.” Loras liked saying Renly’s name. It rolled off his tongue in such a nice way. Even Renly’s face lit up a little when he said his name. “Actually, I would like some wine,” Loras decided. He hadn’t drunk very much back in Highgarden, but he recognized the wine as from the Arbor. Their sigil was a cluster of grapes, by the Seven. Their wine must be good. 

Renly smiled and poured him a glass. When he handed it to him, their fingers brushed against each others’ lightly. The touch sent a shock up Loras’ arm and he jerked away quickly, almost spilling the wine. “Sorry, Loras,” Renly said softly. Loras looked up, careful to make sure the shock and pleasure he felt didn’t go through to his face. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Loras said quickly. “Of course not.” It was strange how he noticed it. After all the time he had been at Storm’s End, both as a squire and a knight, Renly had never said his name like that. With such meaning packed into it, with emotions that Loras couldn’t decipher even if he tried.

Then, he realized, he had been saying Renly’s name like that for a while, on the few occasions that he had spoken it. And he knew what emotions he felt when he said that name. It all made sense. Loras almost lost his grip on the glass when it clicked, and he tried to mask his shocked expression with indifference.

The emotion was love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it's been a while since I updated this. I'm going to try to be more regular now that I have more time and got over some writer's block, but I hope you like this chapter!


	12. Sansa

Sansa almost cried when she saw King’s Landing. Not a teary-eyed, sorrow-filled cry, but tears of awe and a dream come true. It was hard for her to believe that she had come all this way and was finally here. She was moments away from meeting her darling prince.

The city was impressive to behold. The spires of the castle were red and orange, the color of a sunset. They towered above her and seemed to touch the sky. Every window glittered in the sunlight and it made the whole castle shimmer and shine. Sansa looked at each one and wondered behind which of them was the Iron Throne.

She had learned all of her histories from Septa Mordane, from the landing of King Aegon the Conqueror to the fifty years it took for the Red Keep to be built and stand as proud and tall as it did. There were tales that the great skulls of dragons like Balerion the Black Dread and Silverwing and Meraxes under the Red Keep, and Sansa was both excited and terrified to learn if that were true. 

It felt as if she were in a dream as she stepped into the city, standing where many Targaryen kings had stood before her. Ned rode in front of her, his riding cape billowing out behind him in the wind. Even he looked impressed by the city, although he had been there many times before. 

A horn sounded to announce her arrival and all of the City Watch Gold Cloaks stood at attention, escorting them through the streets and up to the Red Keep. They passed the Sept of Baelor, a large structure that seemed more like a prison than a Sept to Sansa. But, maybe that was just her faith in the Old Gods talking. 

There was the crash of waves and gulls squawking overhead as she walked her horse through the city. The chatter of people and the clanging of a hammer on steel and the occasional sound of the bell gave breath to the city. It was so much more… alive than Winterfell was. It almost made her miss home. Almost. 

As soon as they passed through the gates of the Red Keep, the sound seemed to dull behind them. The castle towered over her and she looked up in awe, craning her neck to get a better view. 

A short while later, as they shed their riding clothes and had their servants bring their items to their rooms, Sansa went to meet her betrothed. She had made sure to keep her cornflower-colored dress spotless and pristine for her first meeting with the prince, and she fashioned her hair in a southern style. She hoped it would please the prince.

The throne hall was as beautiful as any other part of the castle. Vines crawled up the pillars and the Seven-pointed-star was on every window. The Iron Throne sat directly ahead of her, rising above the floor in a pile of sharp swords melted together. That was where all the Targaryen kings had sat, where His Grace King Robert sat now, and where her prince would sit in the years to come. 

King Robert was not a fit man. He had a potbelly and fat that clung to his bones. Sansa suspected that if the King had no bones, he would fall into a pile of fat. He drunk from a deep glass of what Sansa hoped was water. But as she neared, she saw the white foam that was left on his ragged beard.

And to his left… Sansa’s breath was snatched away from her.

Prince Joffrey was the most handsome boy she had ever seen. He had perfect golden hair and the most magnificent green eyes, he was the spitting image of his mother. His doublet was Baratheon gold and Lannister red, and he had a beautiful sword strapped to his side. Sansa felt her cheeks flare into color as she knelt before the king and her prince. “Your Grace,” she said politely, making her voice as sweet as she could. 

“Sansa, dear,” a warm voice said. It was a woman’s voice, that of Cersei Lannister. Sansa looked up and saw the queen standing to Joffrey’s side, her hand resting on his shoulder. She couldn’t help but immediately liking the striking woman before her. 

“Yes, my queen?” 

“Stand,” Robert said gruffly, cutting off whatever his wife was about to say. “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?” Sansa looked down meekly. 

“Yes, Father, you’re right,” Joffrey said. His boots clicked on the floor as he walked towards her. Gently, he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. She looked into his, too, and saw only love and kindness. The thought made her blush a little more. “You’re beautiful, my lady,” he said softly. 

“Thank you, my prince,” Sansa said sweetly. 

“You are very welcome, my lady.” She couldn’t help the grin that split her face, she just loved her prince so much. He was so kind and chivalrous and it made her so happy. 

The queen stood, pushing her golden hair over her shoulder as she did so. A few steps had her in front of Sansa. “Come, little dove,” she said, smiling prettily. “Allow me to show you around the keep.” Sansa glanced back at her father, and he nodded slightly. Happily, Sansa wrapped her arm around the queen’s.

“Do you like it here?” Sansa asked when they had left the throne room, where that oaf of a king was surely boring her father with matters of state. Poor Joffrey had to listen to them, as well. Why couldn’t he spend time with her? 

Queen Cersei smiled softly. “I miss my home, but at least the ones I love are here.” 

She got the sense that the queen was speaking of romantic love. “You mean King Robert?” 

Some kind of emotion flashed across her face before Cersei replied, her smile turning into a frown then immediately back into a kind, welcoming smile. “Yes, King Robert. And my brother, and all my children. Perhaps you can meet Princess Myrcella sometime. You two have a lot in common.” 

Meeting the princess seemed dull and boring, and especially because the silly princess was even younger than Arya. She must be insufferable. “My lady, do you care to meet my wolf, Lady?” Cersei’s gaze turned icy, but her smile remained. Had something Sansa said made the queen mad? “Or perhaps another time.”

“Yes, child, another time.” She petted Sansa softly and led her to a room at the top of a tower. “This is the Princess Myrcella’s room, if you care to meet her.”

Maybe the princess would be nice. “I would be delighted to, your grace.”

Cersei knocked on the door. “Myrcella?” It unlatched and a small girl with hair as blonde as her mothers’ opened it, clad in a soft pink dress. 

“Yes, mother?” 

“This is Sansa, of House Stark,” Cersei said. The Princess’ eyes gazed at Sansa with wonder. 

“You’re so pretty!” 

A blush crept onto Sansa’s cheeks and she looked down to hide it. 

“How about you show her around the castle?” Myrcella nodded wildly.

“Can Ser Godwyn come with us?”

“Of course, my love.” She turned to the red cloak by the door, who was watching Myrcella with a fond gaze. He returned Cersei’s glance and nodded.

“I will take care of the princess, your grace,” he said with a smile. “I would never let a thing happen to her.” 

“Thank you, Ser,” Cersei said. “I will talk to Father about your pay, and raising it.” She swept off with a flourish of red and gold skirts. 

“So you’re the one to marry Joff?” Myrcella asked. “You’re so much prettier than most Northwomen. Tommen says they’re all ugly, but you seem really pretty!”

“Now, now, princess,” Ser Godwyn warned, but Sansa was warmed by her compliment.

“You are very pretty, as well, Princess,” Sansa said. “Your hair is as bright as the sun.” She meant the compliment. She had always liked her red hair, but Myrcella’s seemed like liquid gold. The princess brightened and grinned.

“Mother says I’m the prettiest person in the Keep. Much prettier than all those girls that the King likes to talk to.” 

Sansa wasn’t sure what Myrcella meant, but she was willing to ignore it. “Do you want to see my wolf, Princess? She’s a Lady, too, like you and me.” 

“Mother says I’m much more important than a lady,” Myrcella replied. “And your wolf can’t be a lady! Joff says that all wolves are wicked beasts!” 

“Lady isn’t wicked!” Sansa exclaimed. How could the princess even think that without even meeting her wolf? Joffrey wouldn’t think that. He must have been joking to Myrcella. “Ser? Can you escort me to the kennels?” 

“I cannot leave the princess alone, my lady,” he said. “Nor can I let you go off alone.”

“Then take the princess with us.”

“Ooh, Godwyn, can I see Mags when we’re down in the kennels?” 

“Of course, princess.” 

Minutes later, Sansa had her face buried in Lady’s warm fur and her fingers tangled in the long hairs at the base of her wolf’s neck. She smelled like the North, and for a moment, Sansa found herself missing home: Winterfell, the Godswood, everything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having trouble finding inspiration and motivation to write this, so I'm going to put this on hold for a while as I do some other things. If this chapter gets a lot of kudos and stuff, I might do some more, but no guarantees.


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